


Find The Mark, Let It Be

by Joana789



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Lives, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Growing Up, Jackson Never Left, M/M, POV Stiles, Rating May Change, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Good Friend, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Soulscars, Time Skips, and he's a werewolf, for now at least, old team because I love them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joana789/pseuds/Joana789
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because of course – of course that glowing soulscars and once-in-a-lifetime love and a soulmate you’re supposed to stay with for the rest of your life are not crazy enough for this world, since werewolves actually fucking exist and Stiles’ best friend is apparently one of them now.</p><p>or</p><p>In a world where everyone has a soulscar of their own - one that matches the mark on their soulmate's skin, whoever they are - Stiles is the only person without it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse for this fic's song to be Natasha Bedingfield's "Soulmate" because that's just too corny, although the lyrics fit pretty well...
> 
> This part is more like a prologue, and there's no Sterek in it yet; the rest of the chapters will be a little different from this one. For now, I just wanted to show the universe they all live in in here. But it's all coming, so stay tuned!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://angstandcats.tumblr.com)

 

 

Everyone has a soulscar.

It is something Stiles learns when he’s five. Their kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Watson, sits them all down one afternoon, the whole group of children forming a slightly uneven circle on the wooden floor and, leaning a bit so that the kids can look her in the face without craning their necks too much, tells them anything she considers crucial for a five-year-old to know about the topic.

It’s just some basic stuff, he supposes, things most – or at least some of them – are already aware of, but the kids listen to her in silence either way, wide eyed and absolutely enchanted, Stiles included.

“One person can only have one soulscar, but they all look very different,” she tells them, rolling up the sleeve of her blue shirt and exposing her own mark. It’s an undefined shape, kind of artistic looking, purple, made up of a handful of lines and arches and curves. It’s nice, Stiles decides.

A couple of children gasp at the sight of the symbol; Mrs. Watson smiles gently, amused.

“You should know that soulscars are very, very special and very, very important,” she says, her mark still visible. Stiles nods, trying to focus, since the matter is so serious. Mrs. Watson holds up a finger. “There’s only one person in the world whose mark will match your own, but you shouldn’t strain and look for them too hard. Soulmates will always find each other. Remember that, okay?”

The kids nod again, harder this time. Stiles can feel the excitement in the air.

He’s never really thought about the soulscars before, not really. He has already known that they existed, or he’s been aware, more like, somewhere in the back of his head. His parents have soulscars – both in the middles of their right palms. Julie, his Mom’s friend has one - a small, grey half circle on her left cheek, and Mr. Olsen, the owner of the grocery store closest to their house, has a soulscar, too, on the inside of his wrist – it’s a simple green triangle. Even some of the kids in his class have them – behind their ears, on their temples, collarbones; there’s even a boy whose mark’s on the very fingertip of his left pinkie, a tiny five-pointed white star.

So he knows that they exist and that when two people are soulmates, their marks look the same, but he’s never really paid much attention to it.

Some of his classmates look like they haven’t, either, because their eyes are wide, mouth slightly parted, and they stare at Mrs. Watson in abrupt recognition, subconsciously leaning forward to get a little bit closer to the beautiful and suddenly fascinating mark on their teacher’s arm, to examine it better. Stiles wonders if Mrs. Watson thinks they look funny like that, but when he peers up at her to check, everything he discovers is an amused, soft smile on her lips.

It widens, growing even gentler when one of the girls raises her hand, shifting her weight.

“Yes, Amanda?”

Amanda lets her arm drop.

“Does your husband have a soulscar, too?” she asks, all excited, looking at Mrs. Watson expectantly. “Is it the same as yours?”

The woman nods, an answer to both questions.

“Everybody has a soulscar,” she says, repeating so that it sinks in. “Me, my husband. Your parents. You, too.”

Amanda smiles at her brightly, dimples showing, and then instinctively puts a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. Stiles notices her fingertips brushing over a little violet flower on her neck.

He can’t help but wonder when his own soulscar will appear.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s seven when he learns that it doesn’t really work like that.

The knowledge comes gradually, slowly, mentioned by different people, hints dropped here and there until he finally manages to put the whole picture together, comprehend its meaning, and when he does, it surprises him, even though it, as Stiles thinks later, really shouldn’t.

Because, apparently, soulscars don’t just _appear_. They are supposed to get imprinted on your skin the moment you’re born, a sign that you belong to someone else in this world from the very first second of your life, from the very first breath you draw. The mark is like a tattoo – because, although you can’t choose the pattern or the colour or the place it will stay in, you can’t get rid of it, either. Stiles learns that there are places his peers wish they had their soulscars – rare places, extraordinary for the signs to surface in, like foreheads or earlobes – and that there are areas where the marks can be seen very often, like shoulder blades, chests or a back of somebody’s hand.

It’s not that much of an issue, though, seven-year-old Stiles thinks. He doesn’t know what happened to his soulscar, why it’s not anywhere on his skin, but that shouldn’t be a problem, right? It shouldn’t be anyone’s business, where his mark is – or, rather, if he has it or not.

But apparently it is.

It’s on his very first day of primary school, and again – he should have seen it coming, even at the age of seven. It’s all completely normal in the beginning – and by _‘normal’_ he means being incredibly stressed out, to the point of his Dad actually having to hug him tightly for a moment and repeat “You’re going to be okay, son,” three times before Stiles finally gives in, lets himself get dragged towards the classroom and forces himself to swallow a couple of times until his throat stops being so tight and closed up.

Among all the stress and nervousness, though, there’s a hint of excitement somewhere there, too. It’s something new, after all, Stiles is finally going to a real _school,_ how cool is that? His dad’s hand is warm is his smaller one - he can feel it even after the touch is gone, even as he sits down in one of the middle rows in the classroom, his fingers subconsciously starting to tap a fast, unsteady rhythm on the desk as soon as he settles. He can already feel the thrill of something prickling at his skin, not really knowing if it’s a good or rather a bad thing.

He doesn’t know any of the faces, he finds as he looks around half-cautiously and full-curiously, but they become slightly less strange and unknown the moment the kids starts to introduce themselves, one by one. Stiles struggles a bit to remember them all, all the names and hobbies and favourite colours or siblings, mainly because he just can’t stop fidgeting in his chair, which leads to some troubles with concentrating as a result (and a brief frown the teacher sends his way), but he does manage to catch some names and those get stuck in his head, kind of.

There’s a girl whose name is Lydia Martin; she has long red hair and big brown eyes and is, Stiles thinks, the prettiest girl he’s seen in his life. No, actually – scratch “thinks”; he _knows_ it the second he sees her, even though he’s never even paid attention to girls, up to this point at least. Her skin is nearly as pale as his own, but other than, they differ completely – he can see it right away; Lydia doesn’t have any moles, freckles, _flaws_ in general and is as self-assures as she is beautiful – it shows in the way she sits, all still and confident, and pouts her lips just a little bit, her gaze skimming over each one of the kids before turning away.

There’s also a boy named Scott, and his eyes are brown, too, but the look in them is not as elusive as in Lydia’s. Scott’s eyes are warm, gleaming, and they remind Stiles of hot chocolate his mom makes in the winter when it’s cold and dark outside and he doesn’t want to go to sleep just yet. Scott seems a little nervous, too, just like Stiles himself, but that doesn’t stop him from smiling at everyone around, a shy, tentative but still nice smile that suits his features well. When his and Stiles’ eyes meet for a moment – just as Scott finishes introducing himself, a little tensely – Stiles actually tries and smiles back at him, and it’s enough for Scott’s eyes to glint and for him to beam.

There’s a boy called Vernon, dark-skinned and already taller than the rest of them; a girl, Sarah, with freckles all over her skin and, according to what she tells them, three little sisters; Thomas, who speaks so quietly Stiles barely catches his name and not much else; Jasper, fidgeting and squirming even more than him; at least a dozen of other children whose names Stiles doesn’t remember. They all seem amiable, though, enough for him to stop stressing out so much for a second and actually let himself hope that school will be _fun_.

Then, as quickly as he let his excitement grow, it gets cut short because it turns out that the very first thing his classmates do during their recess is compare soulscars.

They all gather in a huddle the very moment the sound of the bell announces a break, and somehow Stiles finds himself crammed into it before he gets a chance to as much as register what’s happening. They seem really eager to compare soulscars as quickly as possible, to lay their eyes on somebody else’s mark, see if it matches their own.

Because they _all_ have one.

And fine, he knew that something was wrong but at the same time kept fooling himself into thinking that maybe the soulscar he was supposed to have was just… late or something. After all, Mom always says that he’s growing so fast right now – so Stiles figured that there’s a possibility his body just _forgot_ about the mark for the time being, so busy with managing all these other changes instead. It’s going to show up eventually, he told himself every morning when he woke up with new hope to discover his soulscar upon looking in the bathroom mirror, only to discover absolutely nothing new.

Now, though – now the realisation strikes him, hits like a ton of bricks, because none of the other kids is still waiting for their mark to show up like he is. They all have one – Scott is rolling up his sleeve impatiently, Sarah brushes her fringe aside, some other girl pulls her blouse up.

The thrill of adrenaline – enthusiasm – he’d felt prickling at his skin is suddenly gone, and Stiles has no idea how, but just like that he realises, as some part of his brain yells at him – he can’t let them know he _doesn’t_ have a soulscar.

He is kind of terrified, for some reason hidden deep inside his mind.

Luckily enough, he manages to force his way through the small crowd his peers’d formed, weaving his way through and somehow manoeuvring out. Stiles hopes to do it skilfully enough for no one to notice, and is almost successful as he gets to his seat unseen and uncaught, then pretends to look for something in his backpack, ignoring whatever is happening in the group he’s just left – the only person to catch a glimpse of him is Lydia herself, but she just eyes him curiously for a second before turning back to a short boy standing in front of her. Internally, Stiles feels incredibly grateful, nearly as much as he is nervous.

This desperate escape of his succeeds mainly thanks to Sarah, though, who gives a shout of both surprise and joy as she realises that hers and Jasper’s – the fidgeting boy’s –  soulscars actually turn out to match. Jasper flushes red upon the revelation, staring at the girl’s mark, a shape resembling willow leaf on her temple, and Sarah grins at him widely.

“We’re soulmates!” she exclaims, as if the rest of them didn’t already know, especially Jasper himself, who only ducks his head, clearly confused.

Stiles, even though he’s still pretending to not be interested in his colleagues’ actions, can’t ignore the applause the small crowd of children erupts into, all laughter and excited shouts and cheers.

He doesn’t wonder when his soulscar’s going to appear this time, but if it’s ever going to appear at all.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes him almost the whole ride home to finally gather up the courage and speak up.

“Dad,” he manages. Then the words get stuck in his throat.

His dad shoots him a quick glance in the rearviewmirror, not wanting to keep his eyes off the road for too long, and makes a sound that is probably meant to be a nonchalant version of _“What?”_ but somehow comes out a little bit strangled and strange instead. “Hm?”

His dad is a policeman – a detective. He must’ve realised that something happened by now, and that it’s likely to have very little to do with the fact that it was his son’s first day at school. Or maybe he supposes that this is actually the issue – Stiles doesn’t know. What he does know is that Dad stopped trying to make a conversation after his fourth attempt because everything he managed to get out of Stiles about any possible events of the day was “It was okay.” Normally, the man’d be buried under the avalanche of his son’s questions and little stories and anecdotes and “Listen, dad, you’ll never guess what happened!” – they both know that. Stiles would expect him to get engrossed at whatever adventure his story would include within seconds, and he would bounce on his seat, squirm and talk on and on, only to rush out of the car and repeat everything to Mom as soon as the car rolls onto their driveway.

Instead, Stiles just sits still, staring a hole through the headrest of the car seat in front of him, and it’s so unusual for him that the little sound his dad makes when Stiles finally speaks up sounds packed with badly concealed relief.

Stiles fights the lump in his throat that formed there when he, apparently, wasn’t paying attention, because he can’t recall it growing to the point of where it indisposes forming words. Swallowing once, then twice, he reluctantly flits his gaze, only to focus on his own fingers, gripping the fabric of his pants with enough force for it to crumple.

“Why don’t I have a soulscar?”

It comes out rushed, hasty, and Stiles almost trips over the syllables as the sentence tumbles past his lips, but he feels a little bit lighter all the same, finally having asked the question out loud.

Maybe his dad will know, he thinks. Maybe there is something no one has told him about yet, some kind of condition vital for the mark to surface, rules he’ll make sure to play by when he hears about them at last. His dad’s known the answers to all his questions, every single inquiry his overly curious, nosy child’s ever managed to come up with –why the sky is blue, why cats don’t like dogs very much, how come birds fly. He’s bound to have a reply to this one as well, isn’t he?

Stiles, for the briefest second in his life, lets himself believe it’s the truth.  His dad will give him an answer he needs, fix things just like he always does, whether is a cut that needs treating or cheering Stiles up when he’s upset.

That’s why he moves his eyes from his hands, balled up into fists, and fixes his gaze on the rearviewmirror; full of hope, motionless.

His dad keeps his eyes on the road, focused, most obviously mulling over the question. He’s phrasing his answer right now, for sure, Stiles tells himself, he must be, because if his dad can’t tell him what happened to his mark, then no one can.

Stiles shifts his weight a little, and –

And then his dad flits his gaze to look at him, their eyes meeting for a split second, and all of a sudden it’s enough of an answer.

“I don’t know, son,” his dad says.

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, and the world starts spinning again.

Dad sounds wrong. Strange, unusual, and there’s something apologetic in his voice which makes Stiles feel _ashamed_ that he even asked about the soulscar – or, more like, lack thereof – in the first place. It’s okay, he wants to tell him, if only for him to feel better, but then there’s a sting in his eyes and he’s not capable of forming words anymore.

In the end, he just nods, a tiny movement of his head, despite not being sure if his dad will be able to catch it at all. The words still echo in his mind when they finally get home, and in that very moment Stiles decides – he never wants to hear his dad’s voice like this again.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes him a week to make sure that he and Scott are definitely some kind of long-lost brothers, twins switched at birth even though they look nearly nothing alike, except for dark hair and brown eyes. They get along great – approximately from the moment they talk to each other for the very first time. Scott doesn’t mind that Stiles is fidgeting and jiggling half the time, running his mouth, all loud and probably annoying. Stiles doesn’t mind when Scott says something silly or bumps their shoulders too hard, on the edge of painful sometimes. Scott is his buddy, and they just work, the two of them, and it feels like he’s never going to need anyone else in his life.

That’s why Scott’s the first person aside from Stiles’ parents to find out about the soulscar.

It’s when they’re nine and in Scott’s room, during one of many, many sleepovers they are both so fond of. The world outside Scott’s bedroom window is already pitch-black, because they’ve been playing video games for too long and haven’t realised how late it’s gotten just until now. Melissa, Scott’s mom, is bound to be asleep by now, since she told them she had to go to sleep early due to her shift at the hospital the next morning and that she trusted – “ _Please, Scott”_ – they’d go to bed at reasonable time.

A job well done.

The digital clock on Scott’s bedside table lights up the numbers at the sight of which they quickly decide to turn off the game, Scott a little panicked that his mom’ll wake up and find them still awake – it’s 2:27 AM, the clock tells them. Stiles can’t remember the last time he was up at so late of an hour.

They get under the covers – Scott in his bed, Stiles on his mattress on the floor, loaded with blankets. He lies on his side, looking up, and watches as Scott stretches to turn off his bedside lamp.

In the flickering light, Stiles catches a glimpse of his friend’s soulscar – a little, pointed, golden arrow placed in the crook of his elbow he subconsciously rubs when focused on something.

Then, the dark swallows them both and he can’t see it anymore, but for some reason Stiles doesn’t move his gaze from the place he knows the mark is – and will always be – imprinted on Scott’s skin.

And then, mouth working around the words even before his mind catches up to the action, he asks, biting his tongue not quickly enough, “Do you ever think about your soulmate?”

He knows Scott can’t be asleep yet but at the same time a part of him hopes that he is.

“I… don’t know?” Scott speaks after what it feels like a second too soon, definitely awake. “I mean, yeah, sometimes. But it’s kind of hard to imagine this person, at least for now. Why?”

Stiles swallows, audibly in the silence of the room.

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then remembers that Scott can’t see him. “I just saw your soulscar and thought of it, that’s all.”

Scott hums in response, letting him now that he understands, but he doesn’t seem to plan on falling asleep just yet – Stiles knows him good enough to realise that. He snuggles down into the warmth of his blankets, nestles and wraps them tighter around himself, as if the fabric could ward off what he knows is coming.

It doesn’t help him much when, after a minute or so, Scott asks, “Do you?” because the blankets are just as weak of a shield as he expected. “Ever think about you soulmate?”

And the answer is yes, _yes I do_ , but it doesn’t hold the same meaning as Scott’s. Stiles forbade himself from thinking about the lack of his mark, or at least have been trying to do so since becoming sure it’s definitely not going to appear. The thoughts still come sometimes – usually late at night, like right now, or very early in the morning when he’s still fuzzy from sleep – but he does his best to nip them in the bud.

Scott deserves to know, though, Stiles judges, automatically tensing up. He’s basically family at this point, and he wouldn’t laugh at him or mock him about it. They’re like brothers, he repeats in his mind, Scott’s his best friend. He’ll tell him. There’s no one who deserves to know more than Scott does.

“If I tell you something,” he speaks up, and his voice falters a little, and suddenly he’s _so glad Scott can’t see him right now_ because he doubts he’s ever been so nervous in his life, “will you promise to keep… keep it a secret?”

In his own ears, his voice sounds pleading, unsteady, and he wonders if it sounds like that to Scott, too.

He can almost _hear_ him frowning.

“Yeah,” his friend promises. “Of course.”

So Stiles inhales, shaky, then exhales, braces himself, and admits, his throat tight and voice weak, “I don’t have a soulscar.”

The words ring in quiet as Stiles waits, listening to the rush of blood in his head. Scott’s mattress creaks when he shifts his weight or moves.

“Wh… Wait, what?” Scott’s voice is a little too loud, and Stiles kind of wants to tell him not to yell because what if it wakes up his mom, but then the lamp on the bedside table flickers back to life and that clearly shows Scott doesn’t care about the volume of his voice at the moment. Stiles narrows his eyes because the light blinds him just a little. “It’s impossible, everybody has one!”

Stiles sits up slowly, gaze fixed on the green of one of the blankets, and shrugs. It’s very stiff. “I don’t. I don’t have it.”

Apparently, that’s the confirmation Scott needed, because now he only gapes at Stiles for a moment, eyes huge, mouth parted in disbelief. Then his gaze skims over those parts of Stiles’ body which aren’t covered by clothes or blankets – his forehead, then cheeks, the backs of his hands – only to find nothing because there’s no other possible choice. “But what happened? Did it vanish or – “

“No,” Stiles shakes his head, fumbling with the rim of a blanket. “It… it never even appeared. I don’t know why.”

And then he sees the way Scott looks at him – it might be the light’s fault, but he _swears_ something flickers in his friend’s brown eyes, something disturbingly similar to the look in his dad’s eyes back from the first day of school, and that’s when anxiety really kicks in.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” he asks, his voice on the verge of panicked. “Please don’t tell anyone, Scott – “

“I won’t, Stiles,” Scott cuts him off because Stiles’ tone is just full blast fear now. “I promise.”

He pierces Stiles’ gaze with his own, suddenly appearing somewhat too mature for a nine-year-old, but it only lasts a second because when Stiles nods, he smiles at him, this big, happy grin of his that makes him look like a puppy.

Scott turns the light off then, they say their _Goodnight_ ’s , and Stiles is already half–asleep when he hears Scott again.

“Besides, you never know,” he mutters, and if it was any less silent, the words would get lost in the space of the room, “maybe having no soulscar is some kind of a soulscar, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

He is ten when his mom dies.

The mark on his dad’s right palm turns from blue to black.

 

* * *

 

 

His world gets a little bent and crooked sometimes, without his mom in it anymore, but eventually Stiles finds his own way of dealing with it, step by step and day after day, until days melt into weeks and weeks melt into months.

The panic attacks occur less and less often, never really stopping – because anxiety disorder is not something one could dismiss so easily – but Stiles learns how to handle them, and so does his dad and Scott as well. He starts sleeping more again, less and less scared to let the dreams (and nightmares) seize him every night. He eats, still little at first, and then gradually more. His dad goes back to work two weeks after the funeral, only to come back home with a badge and a – _finally_ – smile on his face, which means that he got promoted and is the Sheriff now.

Good, Stiles thinks. He deserved it for quite a long time.

There’s still an immense hole in his life, one he doubts he’ll ever be able to fill, a wound gaping because their house is suddenly too big for only two people and too quiet, but he’s still got his dad, and his dad’s still got him, and that has to be enough for the both of them.

Slowly, everything falls back into place.

Lydia Martin still ignores him most of the time, getting prettier and more intelligent every day even though he thought it was not possible.

Scott is still the best person he’d ever hope to be friends with, because he’s always there when Stiles needs him, but also pretends not to hear when Stiles cries in the bathroom at times and not to see when he comes out later and his eyes are red and cheeks are damp, because they both know that pity doesn’t bring much comfort. He makes Stiles laugh, Stiles making him laugh, too, in return, and they start playing lacrosse together – a sport Stiles pretty much sucks at, but it doesn’t matter; it’s always fun, and always with Scott.

Sarah and Jasper remain together, holding hands nearly every time Stiles catches a glimpse of them, and Jasper doesn’t seem so jittery anymore. They… look good together; _match_ , really, even though Stiles can’t help but feel a bit jealous and weird about it. That would mean this whole soulscars system actually works, and it is not fair, since his own mark still remains non-existent.

His body seems to be pretty stubborn about that.

One day, though, as he subconsciously follows Jasper with his eyes around the classroom (until their teacher notices and sends him a frown), gaze fixed on the mark on the boy’s temple, it occurs to him that maybe, if his body is so irritatingly stubborn, his mind should be, too.

 _It’s the last try_ , he tells himself. The last chance, and if it doesn’t work, he’ll just give up, because this constant flicker of hope in his chest, the spark being lit and then put out, is getting a little tiring and a whole lot disappointing.

Nevertheless, Stiles digs in.

Whatever he manages to lay his hands on instantly becomes a valuable source of information, whether it’s something on the internet, a newspaper, a book ten times older than him, a TV show or a thing entirely different. First, he gathers it all up – browses any webside connected to the topic of soulscars he stumbles across, making specific notes most of the time; goes to the library, walking in barehanded and walking out with almost a dozen of old volumes, a few magazines and three old documents (and qualms, since he had to lie to the librarian about his age and identity to get all of these); watches interviews, programs, videos and makes notes until it gives him muscle cramps in his hand. He even asks his dad about it, breaking this little promise he’d made himself back when he was seven. Sheriff looks at him, thrown off for a second – probably because Stiles has just interrupted his rant about the cons of using the computer for so long, and at his age – but answers nevertheless, what he knows is not much, though.

So apparently, Stiles is good at research, he discovers.

Then comes the harder part, though, because now he actually has to analyse it all – this vast amount of books and magazines and documents, even his own notes, and narrow it down to something he could work with. He spreads it all on the floor in his room, since the desk is way, _way_ too small, and dives in.

He gets to know a lot of new things – and by _“a lot”_ Stiles actually means so many his mind is not even capable of comprehending them all. The concept of soulscars in general, when they first appeared, some basic researches carried out, myths, medieval beliefs, modern urban legends – it’s all there.

What Stiles double-highlights among dozens of pages his notes consist of, though, are only three things.

The first, an old document the copy of which he’d found in one of the huge books, is a century-old treatise he barely understands. It’s boring, and he actually considers putting it down, actually, when he catches a passage, barely a handful of sentences. The author briefly entertains the idea of not having a soulscar, blaming it on the fact that such human would have to be “conceived without love and care, then possibly abandoned.” Stiles folds it in half, hiding in the depths of his desk drawer, hoping to never find it again, because it’s so, _so_ untrue and so, _so_ unfair.

The second is a short story, clearly theoretical, purely fictional, describing a world entirely different than the one he knows; a reality where people don’t have soulscars at all, none of them. In this world, a strange, yet very believable universe, it’s impossibly easy to make a mistake and fall in love with the wrong person, but if somebody’s lucky enough, they’ll find their soulmate either way. Here, some people are never happy and lead miserable lives, but some are fond of the risk; find that the love they’d discovered was worth whatever price they had to pay in the end. The author represents the lack of soulscars as a sign of power, associates it with free will, and this story is, Stiles thinks, erroneous as well.

The last one, though – a legend he finds, hand-written and so old the pages almost crumble under his fingers – is what draws his attention the most. It’s a myth from some foreign country, odd and fascinating at the same time. It says that sometimes, although very, very rarely, a different kind of soulscar can be found, more powerful one, bizarre. Occasionally, the marks of a few pairs of soulmates don’t appear in the same places on their bodies, or as the same images. Instead, they are connected – either by what each of them shows or by what they’d show together, combined. “When the soulmates blessed with this kind of soulscars finally recognise their mutual affection, their marks will brighten, a sign that they’re bonded,” the legend reads.

It might be not entirely connected to what he’s been looking for, maybe even a bit silly, but Stiles reads it two more times, if only because he finds the idea so captivating, before he puts it away.

Other than that, he finds nothing, though. No logical explanation for him lacking the mark while everyone else has it, nothing he could do to fix it, nothing that would work and make it appear.

So, after nearly a week of interesting, occupying albeit still draining and in the end fruitless work, Stiles puts all his notes in an empty shoebox, places it on the top shelf in his closet – because that’s how, he knows, he’ll forget about it the fastest – and carries all the books back to the library because, really – _enough with the disappointments_.

 

* * *

 

 

There are some moments in his life he sometimes goes back to and defines them as the points when his life took a turn, changing inevitably.

One of those is his first day of high school, because that’s when all hell breaks loose.

And sure, call it lame, that would be kind of true because it’s stupid to think about high school as an extremely important issue, it’s not the high school itself, though, but all of the hints and factors that come together that day. Half of a body found in the woods the night before, Stiles listening in on his dad’s phone call again – a habit he developed, one that he finds very useful and one that Sheriff resents, calling an invasion of privacy; the howling of some animal Scott  swears he heard at some point; it all sums up and explodes the next day, right in his face.

Because, apparently, his best friend becomes a werewolf.

And Stiles doesn’t really believe it at first – there are no wolves in California, no kind of wolves – _there’s no way a wolf bit you, Scott_ – and Beacon Hills has always been a pretty weird place, equally bizarre and boring, but it’s just how it works – up to the point where really strange things start happening around Scott and _to Scott_ and _with Scott_. Scott McCall, this bony, asthmatic boy, who used to warm the bench next to Stiles throughout their whole lacrosse career, is suddenly a freaking _professional_ , stellar at the sport they both usually suck at, and he moves and jumps and gets every ball, and say whatever you want but people don’t improve like that overnight.

So, before he gets a chance to as much as _think_ about it, Stiles finds himself sitting in front of his laptop, browsing the web in search for something – anything – about what could be possibly happening to Scott, reading and typing, checking, saving pages, scribbling random words on the margin of his English notebook since it’s lying open on his desk anyway.

And as he does so, preoccupied, he can’t help but feel as if he’s twelve again, staying up all night researching, remembering and comparing, throwing himself into the task. This time, though, it’s not about him but Scott – and this time, he actually finds an answer.

Because of course – _of course_ that glowing soulscars and once-in-a-lifetime love and a soulmate you’re supposed to stay with for the rest of your life are not crazy enough for this world, since werewolves actually fucking exist and Stiles’ best friend is apparently one of them now. _“Lycanthropy”,_ it stands, small letters scribbled messily in his notebook, and as Stiles stares at it, he gets this feeling in his chest – one that tells him he’s about to get into something pretty big, something outreaching the borders of Beacon Hills. Scott’s already knee-deep in it, and still sinking, and if something is Scott’s business, it automatically becomes Stiles’ too.

The whole werewolf thing, though – it’s kind of awesome.

 

* * *

 

 

Then, there’s Allison.

So many things happen at once during such a short period of time – Scott suddenly being a werewolf, the threat of full moon, Derek Hale, lurking in the woods and always appearing out of nowhere, which usually scares _the shit_ out of Stiles – that he barely manages to look at her for more than what it feels like half a minute at first.

(Besides, that’s mainly thanks to the fact she seems to be hanging out with Lydia a lot, and at Lydia Stiles looks whenever he gets a chance to because nope, his giant crush on her is not going anywhere, not in this century).

Half a minute is enough to notice some things about her, though. She’s a little shy, but must be used to moving, because she quickly makes friends, even though Stiles is sure the fact she’s very pretty is a help, too. She smiles nicely and genuinely, even at the teachers, and is always sweet and graceful.

Scott is crazy about her in less than a second after she comes into the classroom, and later it just gets worse. Whenever he looks at her – and Stiles knows he looks at her a lot – he gets this strange look on his face, one that actually makes him resemble a puppy a little.

“Dude, calm down,” Stiles tells him occasionally, as days pass and Scott falls deeper and deeper while the events in Beacon Hills just get weirder and scarier – getting trapped in school; Derek asking Stiles to cut his freaking arm off, _what?;_ Lydia seeing some creature and getting scared so much she has to be heavily medicated; all the fuzz with Kate Argent, Allison’s father being a hunter– but it seems to do little to Scott, even though Stiles knows that can’t be true.

And Stiles can’t really get it at first, because Scott might be in love, but it’s still kind of confusing (and dangerous). His own feelings for Lydia were never _that_ intense, never made his eyes glint so much, although he’s sure he’s in love with Lydia, too. At first, he tells himself that what Scott’s feeling right now is just overwhelming, sudden, an ideal example of first love; then, he thinks it’s because Allison actually likes Scott, too, and they go on dates and hold hands and look disgustingly good together – this is something that never happened to him and Lydia since he is not sure Lydia Martin even knows Stiles Stilinski exists, too busy with this asshole Whittemore.

It’s two weeks after Allison arrives in Beacon Hills when he finds out the truth, though.

It happens on a Tuesday, as his second lesson’s about to begin – French. Allison’s in this class, too, and from what he’s managed to notice, she’s really good, speaking the language practically fluently, so it only surprises him a little when he sees her already sitting in the classroom as the rest of students slowly fill the room.

She sends him a smile when Stiles sits down behind the desk just next to hers.

“Hi, Allison,” he greets, and she opens her mouth to answer but then the teacher comes in and the lesson begins.

They open their books and start working on some grammar exercises, Stiles barely understands anything at all, though, so it takes him just a few minutes to space out completely, abandoning the task Mrs. Morin asked them to complete, looking around with boredom instead. He eyes the blackboard for a moment, then flitting his gaze to the pictures hanging on the wall on his right, observing Vernon Boyd as he erases something in his notebook, watching Ian Simons and Thomas O’Donnell sending texts to each other, cells hidden under their desks. Then, he catches a movement, so he looks that way.

It’s Allison, raising her hand as a sign that she knows the answer to whatever question Mrs. Morin happened to ask, and that’s when he sees it.

The first thought in his mind is _“I should’ve known”_ because it all makes sense now, surprisingly obvious, although still just a tiny bit startling.

There’s a little pointed, golden arrow in the crook of Allison’s arm.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t tell Scott.

Perhaps he should. Stiles might not have a soulscar of his own, but he’s perfectly aware just how big of a deal they are to some – most – people, Scott included. He would be absolutely _delighted_ to know; Stiles can already imagine the way his eyes would widen and mouth would hang open for the shortest second, the sound of wonder he would make, the way his breath would hitch in his throat. He erases the image from his mind, though, because _he can’t tell him_.

The official explanation is that it’s definitely too hazardous now to focus on things such as love; both Stiles and Scott are still new to this absolutely crazy, yet kind of awesome world of supernatural, and whatever it is that’s happening in Beacon Hills, it seems to be revolving around Scott. Until they figure it out and get rid of the danger, there’s no mentioning soulmates, Stiles determines.

But the other explanation, the unofficial one – it’s a whole lot more personal and a great deal weirder, somehow.

Because he already knew Scott had a mark while he didn’t. He knew Scott would eventually find his soulmate, bump into them somewhere in the world, and he would not because the lack of a soulscar equals the lack of a soulmate, too, doesn’t it? And it’s not like he’s jealous – Stiles just…

He didn’t see it coming.

So he keeps his mouth shut. Lets the memories of Allison’s and Scott’s identical marks settle in the back of his mind, sharing them with no one. He’s not sure if he should feel guilty or not, but the feeling still gnaws at the insides of his chest sometimes, late at night, eats away at him, and in these moments he almost hates himself for being such a shitty and selfish friend.

But then, all of a sudden, there’s nothing to worry about anymore because Scott finds out on his own, and somehow that feels even worse.

“Bro,” Scott calls him one Sunday night, really late, and of course Stiles picks up because of course he’s still awake, “you’ll _never_ guess what happened.”

Scott sounds shocked and incredibly thrilled and confused at the same time, it’s perfectly audible even over the phone.

 _“Wanna bet?”_ he doesn’t say. Scott would be surprised. “What?”

And this single word makes the dam break, because Scott literally floods him with information – how he and Allison went on a date and Scott picked her up even though he was still awfully scared of her dad, but the date was so fun and they were kissing and she looked so beautiful and Scott took off her sweater when they were making out in the car, and she took off his jacket and then they saw, both at the same time –

“Her soulscar looks exactly like mine, Stiles!” Scott exclaims, and Stiles wonders if he’s ever heard him so excited before. He doesn’t think so. “A golden arrow, just the size of mine’s, our marks are identical, dude, I found my soulmate – Allison’s my soulmate!”

He tries to think of a response that would be good enough – something along the lines of “That’s so great, Scott!” and “I can’t believe it!” but when he speaks out loud, the words come out weak and pretty unconvincing.

Scott doesn’t mind, though. He barely seems to notice that Stiles replied with something at all, and Stiles –

He can’t find it in himself to blame him.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s not ready for anything that happens, even though it’s nothing new, really.

Stiles kind of feels like on the very first day of school again, during that break when all the kids gathered together to compare their soulscars – except for him – because, again, he realises that everyone has a soulscar _but him_.

It hurts more than it should at this point.

Scott and Allison are nowhere to be seen for three whole days after their miraculous discovery – nowhere near the school, at least. Stiles knows they are savouring the awareness of finally having a soulmate – of being soulmates – and he understands; in his own way at least.

It’s not like Scott ditched him, or something, he keeps repeating in his own head. It’s not like he’s jealous.

(Well, maybe he kind of is. Just a tiny little bit, because he doesn’t think it’s fair – Scott is a werewolf now, could probably break somebody’s rib with his little finger if he wanted, and Stiles is just a human, like everybody else. Scott’s the captain of the team, better than Jackson, while Stiles doubts he’ll ever stop warming the bench, all uncoordinated movements and too much energy, thank you, ADHD. Scott is getting more and more popular; Stiles is still just this weird kid who talks too much and trips every five minutes. Scott has a girlfriend – a soulmate – and a soulscar and an actual future with someone. Stiles doesn’t have any of that.

But it’s fine. He’ll get used to it all, he always does.)

By the time Scott appears back in school, Stiles has already tucked away whatever it was that he felt.

“Long time no see, Scott,” he welcomes him, a little mockingly. “How was the _great rendezvous_?”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles just kind of gives up at some point, or at least believes he does. It’s high time.

It’s somewhere around the time when Peter fucking Hale finally drops dead, his charming nephew Derek fucking Hale becomes an alpha and stubbornly refuses to pull his own head out of his ass, Allison turns out to be just as badass as she is sweet, Lydia starts to heal, agonizingly slowly, in the hospital, Scott starts to get a grasp on how to handle his werewolf powers and Stiles learns that he is, in fact, good at one thing – running away from danger when the others tell him to.

All the events around the pack slowly begin to calm down.

That’s why Stiles raises his hand one day during one of his English classes – just to make sure that whatever happens some things will never change, even amongst all the chaos and danger and madness in the world – and asks, “Mr. Will, a quick theoretical question – what would you do if you met someone without a soulscar?”

He can feel Scott’s cautionary gaze on him – _What are you doing, Stiles?_ – and just quickly winks at him as an answer.

All his teachers are already used to those, because Stiles likes asking questions completely unrelated to the subject of whatever lesson he’s having. Some of them ignore him, or shoot him an unimpressed glare and just go on, but some – Mr. Will, for example – actually answer, finding it pretty interesting.

And Mr. Will is actually one of the best in regard to coming up with creative replies to Stiles’ random inquires, but this time he just smirks.

“Stiles, it’s impossible,” he says, raising as eyebrow at him. “Everyone has a soulscar.”

That – that is exactly what he wanted to hear.

Because of course – everyone has a soulscar and each one of them is different and _soulmates will always find each other_ , no matter what happens.

Everyone has a soulscar, except for, apparently, Stiles Stilinski, and that’s a constant in this insane world.


	2. During 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!  
> Sorry that I kept you waiting for so long, guys, I litteraly had no idea some of you were that interested in the story and I'm so happy that you are! I hope this chapter doesn't dissapoint. Sorry for mistakes if you find any - I'll be editing this chapter once again tomorrow.

 

“Dude,” Scott says, “no way.”

If he weren’t Scott’s best friend since he was seven, Stiles thinks sometimes, he would smack him upside the head way more often than he actually does on a regular basis. The fact that they’ve known each other for so long keeps him from doing so, okay – you can’t really use any kinds of violence, no matter how mild, against a person you’ve seen crying over the ice cream they’re never going to get a chance to eat because they dropped it on the pavement accidentally or refusing to get off bed, claiming there were monsters under it, because that would be just _wrong_ – but goddamn it, sometimes Scott _deserves it_.

“Scott,” Stiles says, flopping down on the couch lazily, which seems to cover his slowly burgeoning irritation, remote control safe in his grip for now even though he’s aware than it won’t be that easy to stay in charge of it with a werewolf in the same room, “it’s my turn to choose this month, you _know_ it.”

Scott makes a weird move, almost as if he were planning to stand up but changed his mind in the middle of the action. Stiles’ eyes skim over his golden soulscar for just a second, a manner he has little control over.

“I am not watching _Mulan_ for the third time in a row.”

“But _Mulan_ is the best movie, man!” Stiles exclaims because everyone loves _Mulan_ and nobody’s gonna tell him otherwise. He turns to Allison, hoping to get some help from her. “Tell him, Allison, back me up here, he’ll listen to you.”

Allison, her arm wrapped casually but tightly around Scott, chuckles.

“Sorry, Stiles,” she says, not even trying to sound sorry in the least and Stiles frowns at that, “but I have to agree with him on this one.”

His frown deepens and he sinks into the couch even more.

“Whatever, traitors,” he mutters under his breath, knowing that both Scott and Allison will hear him anyway – Scott because, duh, werewolf powers and Allison because that’s how it works when you spend all your free time hanging out with supernatural creatures – your senses are bound to sharpen at some point. “It’s not like I need your agreement. It’s my turn to choose and I don’t care what you say.”

He clutches the remote tighter, protectively hiding it from any hazards that may lie in wait for its power, curling protectively over it just a little, when Lydia - the rest of the pack two steps behind her - comes into the room, a bowl of popcorn in her hand, and levels Stiles with a stern, so like-her look of ‘should I ask what you are doing’. Stiles only looks at her with what he hopes is visible, genuine innocence, then moves a little to the side to make some more room for Derek, who sits down next to him and only raises an eyebrow in a similar, also unspoken inquiry.

“Derek, this is your apartment,” Stiles says, always there to remind people of the obvious and he bets Derek wants to make a comment about that, so he continues before the werewolf gets a chance to interrupt. “The rules are yours, too. It’s my turn to choose a movie tonight, right?”

Derek frowns, an overly familiar expression on his face.

“That depends,” he says, relaxing into the couch, “on what you want to watch.”

He eyes the remote control in Stiles’ grip. Stiles groans, a bit frustrated.

”You know what I want to watch, there’s no way you didn’t _hear_ ,” he says, shooting him a significant glance. “In case you forgot, I know you’re a werewolf, so your super-hearing powers are no secret. And, as the person who actually pays the rent for this place, therefore has the authority of establishing most of the rules here, please tell Scott it’s my turn to choose the movie, just so that we’re clear.”

Derek’s lips twitch a bit, as if he’s trying to supress one of those small smiles of his that Stiles gets to see a little more often these days, and he actually wonders if he can call that a win.

“Scott, it is Stiles’ turn to choose the movie,” Hale says, voice flat. Stiles laughs triumphantly, ignoring the sounds of frustration both Scott and Allison make.

“That was so easy,” he says, grinning and patting Derek’s shoulder as a sign of gratitude. For a second he can’t help but think that just a few years ago he would’ve gotten shoved into a nearby wall for an atrocity of this kind - now, Derek only shoots him yet another adamant glare. “Thanks, dude.”

“Don’t call me _‘dude’_ ,” he mutters and actually snatches the remote out of Stiles’ hand – no matter what, his reflexes are always faster than the average human’s – but he doesn’t really mind, to be honest.

Jackson mutters something – what, unfortunately, Stiles doesn’t catch – rather gruffly from the spot on the floor where he and Lydia are sitting, his arm wrapped around her waist, but Lydia shushes him before anyone else can; Whittemore stuffs his face with popcorn as an answer to that. It looks hilarious, Jackson’s oh-so-handsome face, the ever-present frown gracing his features and cheeks crammed with food, and Stiles can already feel another giggle building up inside him, but only until Lydia shoots him a sharp glare, somehow _knowing_ , aware that any comment he’d make would result in Jackson starting up an argument inevitably – God, Jackson is such fun to tease sometimes – and Stiles swallows down the laugh in his throat.

“Okay,” he says instead, supressing the urge to clap his hands and smiling a little daringly at Scott, savouring the annoyed expression his friend responds with, “so, let’s start, shall we?”

Isaac, as the one sitting closes to the DVD, pushes himself up, although not without rolling his eyes first, and then steps carefully over Boyd sprawled on the floor, goes and fumbles with the device just as he usually does. Derek turns the TV on, finally putting the remote control to good use – meanwhile Scott mutters something to Allison and whatever it is, it makes her laugh quietly, the sound muffled with her hand or the fabric of Scott’s shirt or maybe a thing yet entirely else, Stiles doesn’t know. He closes his eyes for what it feels like just a split second, just as the first sounds of the movie fill the space of the room.

Then, he wonders how come this is his life now.

And he doesn’t mean hanging out with werewolves or almost-hunters or banshees, because that – he knows _exactly_ how this happened, he’s thought about it and replayed the events leading up to all the happenings so many times he’s not even keeping count at this point. Stiles means something different, something he usually doesn’t really think too much about, and he bets the others don’t, either, aside from these brief, rare moments like this one. Maybe that’s because of fear of some kind, maybe it’s an issue entirely else – he can only suspect.

And he may not be able to scent other people’s emotions like half of his friends can, but Stiles knows just what it is that _he_ feels; what fills his own chest at times and he lets it spread, a warmth in his veins.

It’s gratitude. Peace, maybe, serenity and relief and enjoyment and he can feel it somewhere behind his sternum now, too, because… they all have been through so much, he can’t help but think. High school was straight up crazy, with the constantly changing pack’s dynamics, Scott becoming True Alpha, Stiles worrying sick about his dad’s safety and then working up the courage to tell him about every little, no matter how insignificant supernatural thing that has ever occurred in Beacon Hills so that the Sherriff could just stay _alive_. Stiles used to think he’d go insane – barely managed to avoid it, actually; it still makes him dizzy when he recalls all the creatures they’d fought at some point – faeries and berserkers and demons and ghouls and so many others.

He’s learned a lot during those past couple of years – how to make the effect of using wolfsbane last longer, how to manage his reserves of mountain ash more efficiently, how to treat a wound, when to scream for help and when to stay quiet. He’s learned that Lydia’s make up, no matter how perfect, can’t conceal her exhaustion sometimes; that Derek Hale is, actually, not as much of a jerk Stiles’d labelled him as and occasionally even appears to have, oddly enough, a sense of humour of some sorts. That Jackson, on the other hand, is as much of an asshole Stiles’d imagined him to be, becoming a werewolf not changing his dashing personality one bit. That Allison likes talking to him, although Stiles still can’t exactly pinpoint why.

Above all, though, Stiles has also learned that, no matter how strong they claim to be, whether they are werewolves or hunters or banshees, whether they’ve already found their soulmates or not yet, all of his friends, deep inside, are still simply human, too.

That’s why, he suspects, looking around the room and taking the picture in, those meetings of theirs are so important – their movie nights, or let’s see what’s in Derek’s fridge nights or video games nights or whatever it is they want to do. Stiles wasn’t the one to come up with the idea – quite the contrary, actually – but he _is_ the one keeping the concept alive, forcing them all to meet up in Derek’s loft once a month and just hang out a bit. And fine, he admits that he kind of laughed the idea off when Isaac first mentioned it, presenting as the opportunity to make the pack stronger, bring them all together – God knew some of them, like Scott and Allison, _did not_ need to get any closer since it was already hard enough to deal with their behaviour when they thought nobody was paying attention, and Stiles didn’t feel any particular need to get all touchy-feely with Jackson for example, thank you very much.

Now, when he thinks about it, though, it all looks a little different.

Stiles fits in here, somehow. He _fits_ there, in this very place, amongst the people he cares about so much it nearly hurts sometimes. His eyes stop on Scott and Allison snuggled up together, Scott’s golden soulscar clearly visible in the light of the room – Stiles’ trained eyes have no trouble finding it; then, he moves his gaze to Jackson and Lydia, sitting close on the floor; to Isaac, sprawled comfortably near them, then Boyd. To Derek, right there next to Stiles himself, his arm thrown over the back of the couch and Stiles is abruptly struck with the realisation that they’re sitting close enough for Derek’s fingers to brush the back of Stiles’ neck if he wanted to do so. Derek’s expression is open, relaxed; a sight Stiles is, quite frankly, still not entirely used to, even though they’ve known each other for years, and he briefly wonders if it will ever happen – if, in a month or a year or a decade, he’ll realise one day that he’s already – suddenly – familiar with this strange, yet so well-known look.

If not, he doesn’t think he’d mind too much.

He’s got a lot of time to work on that, doesn’t he?

 

* * *

 

For a fairly long time, nothing happens.

Fine, college turns out to be just as much fun as it is awful – whoever came up with the idea of 8 AM classes was a bad, bad person and Stiles condemns them deeply. Finals usually kick his ass, as do study groups he tries to avoid taking part in, only to get dragged into one anyway in the end. His room is always messy and cluttered, even more than it was during the high school days, because Stiles is _forever_ in a hurry and short of time. But it’s all alright at the end of the day, because it’s all just like it’s _supposed_ to be. His schedule might’ve gotten a little crazy recently, and he might’ve skipped a meal or two here and there, but it’s nothing too serious.

Stiles deals with it, just like everyone else –

Because, weirdly, in college he actually _feels_ like everyone else.

Most people would probably be upset when faced with such a statement; they tend to get a little scared of getting lost in the crowd, he’s noticed, whether it comes a child in kindergarten or their parent or their teacher. ‘ _Plain_ ’ is always associated with _‘average’_ and _‘common’_ and those words are slowly becoming, Stiles judges, his favourites; he would be able to do many, many things to become simply plain since, even if other people might have, he’s never seen himself as such.

Because no, his soulscar still doesn’t exist. Primary school was no turning point when it comes to that matter, and neither was high school – college is no different, but it’s not like Stiles ever expected it to be, or something. His skin, when he looks in the mirror every morning, is always as pale as ever, a part of him that stays the same over the course of years, just like his eyes remain brown and hair messy. _Why would anything change?_ he asks himself at times, although rarely – sometimes a little bitterly, but usually just out of habit. He’s come to terms with the awareness, and even though he’d be lying if he said he was fine with it – he’ll never be fine, doesn’t think he would be able to, not truly, not _entirely_ – he’s infrequently given much thought to the matter latterly.

The thing is – and that’s _so_ awesome about college, really – that other people don’t pay attention to it, either. It’s not kindergarten anymore, where everyone needs to check and see for themselves if your mark, by any chance, matches theirs. Now, many people who haven’t met their soulmates yet not only treat soulscars as something very special but also extremely private – asking them to show the mark would be beyond rude, the bluntness they approached the subject with, barely a couple of years ago, now completely forgotten. Stiles quickly fits into this group, worms his way into it, pretends to have a soulscar of his own, imprinted somewhere on his body but hidden under his various hoodies and flannel shirts. The mere existence of his would-be soulscar is the only thing he really fakes, though – the taut hint in his voice, for instance, and terse answers he gives whenever somebody asks him about it are completely genuine.

Besides, he thinks sometimes, mostly while absentmindedly following Scott and Allison with his gaze, or Lydia and Jackson when they’re together – at least until Jackson doesn’t snap at him to ‘ _stop staring, you creep_ ’ – it’s not really his fault that others mistake his laconic replies for a sign of wanting to maintain the subject private rather than seeing it as one of sheer nervousness, isn’t it?

That’s what he keeps telling himself, and as for now, it’s good enough of an excuse.

Keeping the lack of a soulscar a secret is what he’s been doing his entire life – rather successfully, if he can say so himself and if getting away with it for so long is something to go by – and his strategy is as simple as it gets: he doesn’t mention the problem and hopes the others won’t, either. Every once in a while Scott suggests that he go and tell the pack – _at least them, Stiles, I’m sure they’d understand, they’re family –_ because it’s high time, and Stiles understands why, since Scott has to lie to his own freaking soulmate at times, just for Stiles’ sake, because of some silly promise he made him a decade ago, and he knows it’s not fair, he knows it’s exacting.

But he _can’t._

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure they would get it, in leaps and bounds,” Stiles manages to sneer once, simply tired of the conversation because it’s the third time this week they’re having it although Stiles’ answer is still unaltered. “Especially my favourite buddy, Jackson.”

Personally, he considers it the weakest of the wide variety of his reasons – there are ones that are much stronger, more convincing, ones he thinks about late at night when he can’t sleep – but this reply seems to somehow be enough for Scott anyway, bless him, because he doesn’t push.

Then again, if there’s anyone capable of catching all the fear and worry hidden under the thick layer of sarcasm in Stiles’ voice at all, it’s Scott, and he does not need his werewolf powers for that, he’s never needed them.

Aside from Scott’s helpful suggestions, the subject of soulscars is not mentioned much, though. Okay, maybe except for a couple of times during some of Stiles’ few sexual encounters – because yes, okay, there are actually people in this world who don’t really care about the marks that much, enough to have sex with someone other than their present/future soulmate. Stiles doesn’t know for sure, he has never asked – to avoid the risk of answering a question he’d get in return, honestly – but he supposes those are the unlucky people born with their soulscars black, a sign that their soulmates, whoever they might’ve been, are already dead. Those people don’t have anything to loose; those people don’t care – but still, some of them ask nevertheless.

And this is where Stiles lies; comes up with an easy answer to these very similar, hasty questions – _“What about your soulscar?”_ – mumbled heedlessly in between heated kisses or pronounced carefully in the dim light of a cheap bedside lamp. Sometimes he says he’s like them, born with his soulscar black and soulmate already gone – even a black mark is still better than none – although that he does rarely because there’s something wrong about it; something bitter, irrationally so. Sometimes he says his mark surfaced in some stupid place, strange enough to keep them from checking if they ever wanted to, like a sole of his foot or the inside of his cheek. Sometimes – mainly, to be frank – he uses distractions: pulls them in for another kiss instead of replying, turns off the light and lets the fun begin, and they go with it, because why wouldn’t they?

A filthy bathroom in the back of some club wouldn’t exactly be his first choice for such activities, but hey, it’s not like he actually _gets_ to choose, right? One-night stands are everything he’s ever going to get, he’s aware, because while there actually is a handful of pretty popular dating websites for people whose soulscars are black – they can find one another easier this way, meet someone to fall in love with, as if their marks never even existed in the first place – there are none for people without soulscars at all.

It’s not like there’s anyone waiting for him out there anyway.

 

* * *

 

Deaton, Stiles believes – a conviction that has been residing somewhere in the back of his head for quite a long time despite him trying to make it vanish – means trouble.

And it’s not that he doesn’t like the guy – Deaton’s cool, really, and, like, super smart and mysterious and, aside from being a druid, he’s also a freaking _vet_ , let’s not forget that. He’s saved their sorry asses more times than Stiles would be personally willing to admit – than anyone in the pack would be willing to admit, he supposes, really. Derek would be dead at least five times by now if it wasn’t for Deaton putting him together over and over again, mending every wound Derek’s werewolf healing processes refused to deal with. Stiles still remembers, more vividly than he’d prefer to, the sharp ache in his own hand after his highly unfortunate encounter with a ghoul, a deep, bleeding wound that hurt like hell, and how quickly Deaton got rid of the pain, leaving only a dull throb and a scar behind.

At the same time, that’s kind of the point, though, because Alan Deaton is like a mirror that slips out of your hand and before you even get a chance to realise, boom, it’s broken, seven years of bad luck right there especially for you. And while Deaton might not necessarily bring seven years of bad luck, he surely does bring _some_ _of it_ nearly every time Stiles sees him. Deaton is not the kind of guy who’d just come by and say, “Hi, do you have a minute? I thought I’d drop in for a coffee.”

He’s rather the kind of a guy who’d come by and say, “Hi, do you have a minute? A dozen of evil spirits is after you, you should know that.”

Therefore, Stiles has every right in the world to feel a little disturbed  when he comes into Derek’s apartment one (for the time being) peaceful afternoon, only to find Alan Deaton sitting on the couch, an old-looking, slightly crumpled sheet of paper in his hand and eyes focused on Derek, sitting opposite.

A part of Stiles’ mind expects Derek to end the conversation, whatever it is about, the second he realises that it’s him, Stiles Stilinski, who’s just come through the door – or at least growl at him for coming in uninvited. Derek, though, only looks at him with some kind of vague, casual question in his eyes (Stiles mouths a _hello_ at him, which earns him a short nod) before turning back to Deaton, and that’s when Stiles remembers – _this is not how they work anymore._

“So, the safest option is to assume they’d be coming from the north,” Deaton says, carrying on his interrupted statement and eyeing Stiles briefly. Stiles only waves his hand in a sign of greeting, pretending the sight of the man doesn’t unsettle him in the slightest, then heads into the kitchen.

Derek’s response is a low mutter, like he’s mulling something over.

“Provided that they actually do come as far south as this town,” he says after a few seconds, although his words are not as loud, as if muffled  by something.

“Yes,” Deaton agrees. Stiles opens Derek’s fridge, all shiny and new, like everything in the loft, pretending to occupy himself with the search of some sorts of food he could steal and consume instead of just shamelessly listening in on the two of them. “Although, according to my information, it’s more than likely.”

Stiles can’t really hear that well, but he bets Derek actually sighs and he can’t help a slight smile, a subtle raise of the corners of his mouth as he crouches in front of the fridge and examines its content.

“Okay,” he then hears Derek say. There’s a barely audible sound of paper rustling to accompany the word, then a creak of leather when one of them shifts his weight. “Okay, I guess we’ll have to look into it, then.”

Stiles’ eyes skim over the products in front of him – a carton of milk, some yoghurt, various vegetables because Derek can actually cook really well and doesn’t only eat meat – _no, Stiles, being a werewolf doesn’t work like that_. There’s nothing Stiles would particularly crave for at the moment, though, so he closes the fridge and goes for the cupboard over the sink instead, since this is where, he knows, Derek keeps all the sweets he has. The first thing Stiles fishes out of there is a pack of Oreos, and he instantly decides it’ll do.

He’s munching on his third cookie, leaning against the table, when Derek steps into the room; his sudden onset has Stiles making a mildly surprised noise.

“You already kicked Deaton out?” he mumbles around mouthful of food, because he actually missed the sounds of him leaving. Derek gives him a slightly displeased look, but that’s probably because there are crumbs all over his shirt since, according to what Jackson always says, he cannot eat like a normal human being.

“I didn’t kick him out,” Derek says, propping one hand on his hip, then asks, “What are you doing here anyway?”

Stiles swallows and grins in response.

“Stealing your food.”

Hale rolls his eyes at him with such an amount of sass he actually wonders if it’ll ever fail to make him watch in awe, but then Derek goes and reaches for an Oreo for himself and that doesn’t look as intimidating. “I mean what are you doing in my apartment, not in my kitchen specifically.”

Stiles makes a noise, thinking; then, as an idea pops up in his mind, pushes himself up in one swift motion and sits on the table, comfortably, swings his legs in the air.

“I can’t find my Econ book, I think I left it somewhere here,” he says. It’s not a lie because he really can’t find the said book, okay, so he has a proper reason. He wonders if Derek’d really mind if he didn’t have one, though – the question he asked sounds easy, like something said just by the way, thrown carelessly into the sentence as if he didn’t really care what the response will be, as if he only asked out to keep up appearances.

Maybe he really doesn’t care, it occurs to him a split second later. It’s no secret he likes Derek’s loft – it’s spacious and comfortable, all the room making it easier for him to focus on whatever matter he’s faced with, to keep his ADHD under control; that’s why he actually prefers to do any research here rather than in his own house nowadays.  And Derek doesn’t seem to mind his presence or him being around in general. He lets Stiles rummage through the contents of the fridge, albeit somewhat reluctantly; rarely snaps at him for entering the apartment without knocking first or doesn’t seem to mind too much when Stiles falls asleep on his couch. Hell, he sometimes even _cooks_ for him when they’re staying up late planning or researching or just trying to figure out how to solve a particular problem, and if this is not an indication enough, then he doesn’t know what is.

“So,” he says finally, after a minute or so, snapping out of his own thoughts and taking a bite of another cookie, “what did Deaton want?”

At that, surprisingly enough, Derek actually sighs and shrugs, albeit it’s a short, barely noticeable gesture. One of the chairs creaks slightly when he sits down at the table, making Stiles look down on him for once, since Derek does have a few centimetres over him when they’re standing.

“He… brought some news,” Derek says, palpably not sure how to phrase whatever he has in mind.

“Oh God.”

“Yeah,” comes the response – they both know that any news from Deaton rarely means anything as much as resembling positive information. “One of his colleagues, let’s say, claims to have sensed something just outside of the state, moving quickly. Some kind of supernatural force.”

Stiles frowns. “Like, a druid colleague or a vet colleague?” he mutters, finding it a rather important distinction but then backs out, holding his hands up, palms out in front of his chest upon noticing Derek’s glare. “Okay, okay, easy, just kidding. Supernatural force, then. You think, another pack or something?”

At that, Derek shrugs.

“No idea,” he admits, then threads his fingers through his hair which makes it a little messy. Stiles tries to ignore the sudden, obscure urge to stare. “Deaton couldn’t really specify, he’s pretty sure that, whatever it is, it’ll visit Beacon Hills inevitably, though, considering the fact that there’s such an immense concentration of abnormal power in here.”

“Bless Deaton, always providing us with such detailed, meticulous information,” Stiles mutters, which earns him another, although less intense glare since this statement is actually true and even Derek can’t deny that.

Deaton’s warned them about some of the potential dangers and hazards lurking close enough Beacon Hills to be considered perilous before, a few times. He doesn’t do that too often, but Stiles has a feeling the man keeps his finger on the pulse nevertheless, only letting them know when the possible menace is either really unsettling or simply life-threatening – that’s how it all worked when Deaton first told him about ghouls and vampires and the werewolf pack that refused to acknowledge Beacon Hills as a territory already taken. At times, though, even if Stiles is still grateful for them, Deaton’s warnings can get messy and chaotic and sketchy, like this one right now, resulting in causing more confusion than anything else.

That’s why Stiles asks, “You want to tell the others now or wait and see, then?”

Normally, he knows, Derek’d go and tell Chris Argent about the information first, no matter how weird and obscure they could turn out to be. Allison’s father has been a huge help when it comes to dealing with this stuff – weird prophecies or old legends or simply decisions the pack couldn’t make themselves. Argent left the town a few weeks ago, though, travelled all the way to France to meet some old relatives and sort a couple of hunters-related things out, and since, according to what Allison said, he wasn’t coming back for another month or so, contacting him now seems kind of pointless.

Derek seems to realise that, too, because he only looks down on the ground, thinking, for a couple of seconds before making up his mind.

“It’s better to tell them now, although there’s not so much to talk about in the first place,” he judges, peering back up at Stiles, and there’s a glint in his eyes he can’t decipher, but it’s gone nearly as soon as Stiles notices it. “I already told you, after all, and it’s no secret that in this case they’d get to know in no time anyway since you’re not capable of keeping your mouth shut.”

Stiles gasps, pretending to be deeply shocked.

“Oh my God, after all these years you’ve finally developed something actually resembling a sense of humour!” He shakes his head with disbelief, nearly missing the way a corner of Derek’s mouth twitches in a supressed smile. “It’s still kinda poor, though, because that wasn’t funny.”

Derek only raises his eyebrows, in that questioning manner of his; that, of all things, actually makes Stiles smile a little this time. He swings his legs in the air again, then crams the last cookie into his mouth and eventually hops off the table.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s okay. They’ve done it before, went through all the stages – learned what the danger was, worked on a proper plan, then implemented it, put it into practice, successfully or not, always ready to make adjustments and coming up with yet another, different solutions, and they fought and they _survived_ in the end, no matter what. They’ve got it all covered, _Stiles_ has, because he’s done it so many times he doesn’t even keep count anymore. There _is_ something soothing about the thought, actually – a thing consoling, tranquil, even – but if it, by any chance, is supposed to make him feel stronger somehow, then this very thought alone won’t be enough.

Because this newfound knowledge about yet another potential threat, whatever it is, after such a long time…  simply _disturbs_ him, to be honest; he hopes it doesn’t show. He’s actually had the audacity to delude himself they’d all get some peace at last, even if only for a year or so, just another couple of months – they deserve peace, they _really_ do, each of them.

But this thing that’s coming doesn’t know that; or perhaps it’s just Stiles, getting his hopes up again, pointlessly. It’s not the first time he’s been mistaken. Maybe this meager piece of seeming serenity they got to savour for a little while is supposed to be sufficient; maybe it’s just not their moment yet – they might’ve managed to catch a breath and adapt into new surroundings, adjust, but peace?

Stiles can’t make himself ignore this weird feeling in his chest that tells him, with some sort of quite terrible clarity he’s not sure of the origins of – for peace he’ll have to wait a little longer.

“I’m gonna call Scott as soon as I get home,” he promises Derek as they walk out of the kitchen and into the living room, Stiles looking around in search for his still missing Econ book, trying to conceal any signs of bother that might show on his face this way. Derek doesn’t look like he’s noticed any, though – thankfully – since he only hums in response, a low sound in his throat, most obviously expecting an answer of this kind.

What he doesn’t expect, though, is Stiles adding, “And if police gets any reports or something, I’ll let you know, ” because he stops in the doorway, frowning, visibly puzzled.

“Your dad’s going to let you see them?” Derek asks, voice incredulous; he’s met dad and the Sheriff’s attitude towards deeds of this kind is bound to be known to him, chances are even better that the man himself. Stiles crouches in front of the coffee table, examining it more closely than he usually does, clicking his tongue.

“No,” he mutters, rolling his eyes although not as skilfully as Derek would. “I’m gonna listen in a little bit, eavesdrop here and there, ask around, stuff like that. Seriously, dad won’t mind too much, though. If he were to answer the question of _On a scale of 1 to 10_ _how intrusive is your kid?_ , he’d give me, like, 15. He’s fully aware of what I am capable of.”

Stiles straightens up and breathes in deeply – an elementary thing, he learned years ago, that helps him pull himself together – looks around again, then heads for the bookshelf in the corner of the room, choosing it for his next target to be scanned and inspected, and grins at Derek as he goes.

“I think I deserve a strong 20, though,” he says, and that – _finally_ – has Derek cracking up, huffing out a laugh as his lips curl into a smile he no longer tries to supress.

This, Stiles thinks, is definitely a win.

 

* * *

 

It’s on a Tuesday, not much later, when he steps into his dad’s office.

It is, he discovers fairly quickly, just as cluttered and absolutely messy as usual, if not more. The desk’s currently graced with the presence of dozens of books, piles of them lined up, next to one another, and there are some loose sheets of paper strewn around on the floor. It looks as if a bomb exploded in there – his mom used to apply this phrase to the state Stiles’ room was back in the day, when he was eight or nine – and it is, so to say, not the most welcoming sight he’s seen in his life.

Stiles lingers in the doorway, actually considers not entering the room because his dad’s not in here anyway yet and what if someone comes in and accuses _him_ of making all this mess, even though he did not have a hand in it at all. Then, though, he just sighs and steps in, deciding that, well, he’s been accused of many much worse things. He’s gonna deal with that.

He heads for the desk, aiming for the chair in front of it rather than the couch in the corner of the room since this particular piece of furniture is now occupied by a number of mysterious files and folders scattered all over it. Stiles carefully steps over the papers on the floor, eyeing them briefly. He hopes it’s not all just paperwork waiting to be done, because if that’s the case, he really feels sorry for his dad.

They don’t see much of each other these days; Stiles is always busy with college, prepares for classes and studies, and when he doesn’t, he’s usually at Derek’s place, doing research or just hanging out. Sheriff, on the other hand, is overloaded with work and only comes home to sleep and change his clothes, basically. He keeps saying that it’s just a period like this _, it’s all going to go back to normal soon, Stiles_ ; that, though, even if Stiles never says it out loud because he does kind of miss his dad, still – is a promise he doesn’t need.

At least his dad’s out of trouble this time. For once, he’s not involved in any supernatural disaster, doesn’t have anything to do with spells, curses or mojos. Whatever this case he’s working on is about, it seems fairly normal so far.

Stiles keeps his fingers crossed for it to stay this way.

The papers scattered across the desk do look suspiciously like paperwork, at least most of them, Stiles discovers upon approaching closer, then peering subconsciously at this whole mess. A part of it differs from the rest, though – there are some maps in here, or photos of some people he’s never seen before, men and women and children of various ages. Stiles takes a few pages in his hands, scans through them curiously, reading, when the door opens abruptly.

“Oh my…” Stiles starts, alarmed and startled, swiftly turning around but then cuts himself off when he sees who the person standing in the entrance is. “Hi, dad, you could’ve warned me, geez.”

Sheriff lifts an eyebrow at him. “I’m not going to knock and wait for permission to enter my own office, Stiles,” he says and Stiles assumes that okay, he has a point. “Were you, by any chance reading confidential data again?”

Stiles snorts.

“Well, it’s hard not to, you know,” he says, gesturing at the mess of papers all over the room. “How is this confidential? What even happened here, did someone force you to do inventory or something? Because if yes, then I’m sorry to say, dad, but you’re not doing much of a great job so far.”

Stiles grins as Sheriff just shakes his head helplessly and closes the door with a barely audible creak.

“I’m working on a case, it… It’s a tough one, let’s say.”

“Well, hey, at least it’s not all paperwork,” Stiles mutters, voice uplifting; sometimes even he can be an optimist, “because that amount of it would, like, kill you dead.”

He hopes it’ll make his dad laugh or just smile, even, because he actually can’t remember the last time he saw a smirk on his face – that scares him, just a little bit, if he’s being completely honest. Dad doesn’t smile, though, much to Stiles’ disappointment, only comes closer and arranges some of the papers on his desk into stacks.

He suddenly looks very tired.

“About the case, there’s…” he starts, then bites his tongue and stops. That’s… very unusual for him, and Stiles can feel his good mood slowly escaping, confusion taking its place. “I asked you to come because there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says, but he frowns in uncertainty nevertheless. “You actually needed a reason for me to be here? I thought you, like, missed me, wanted to see your own son once in a while?”

He doesn’t mean to make dad feel guilty, really, it’s just that he still doesn’t know why he even is at the station, and the only reason he managed to figure out – dad wanting to check if he’s still alive and stuff – now turns out to be a wrong supposition.

That kind of unsettles him.

When Sheriff looks at him, something in his usually stern gaze seem to soften a bit, but he still shrugs.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he says, actually _sounding sorry_. He makes a weird, undefined gesture, motions oddly at his son. “You might want to sit down.”

Stiles frowns, internally debating whether it is the right time to start panicking or not quite yet.

“Dad, what happened?” he asks, because this conversation begins to sound way too serious to be the announcement of dad and Mellissa finally getting together, which Stiles has been quietly hoping for – up to this point, at least. “I don’t want to sit down, tell me what’s going on.”

The last time dad asked him to _sit down_ in this weird voice was when Stiles’ grandmother died five years ago; that’s the last occasion resembling what is happening right now his brain can recall, at least.

Stiles can already feel himself tensing up.

“I’ve been working on a case for quite some time now,” his dad finally begins when Stiles looks up at him after sitting in a chair in front of the desk eventually, the one he usually opts for, if only to put his dad at his ease. “You know I have. It’s very complicated, more than cases similar to this one usually turn out to be, that’s why I’ve been so busy. I didn’t… mean to tell you about it at first, because this is all confidential and it should not be discussed with anyone who is not directly involved in the matter, but the thing is – I… think you might be.”

Dad pauses, lets the words sink in. Stiles just stares at him for a second, incredously, taken aback, then automatically opens his mouth to speak but stops himself at the very last moment. He nods, a tiny movement of just his head, a signal for his dad to go on.

Sheriff nods, too; swallows. “It all did not start in Beacon Hills this time, for once,” he continues in the same strange voice. “A few months ago, someone did a prank call in Minnesota, called 911 with some stupid, imaginary issue, and nobody really took them seriously at first. But then there was another call, and another, and not only from Minnesota but other, different places, too, like Montana or Utah, and as various people kept making  the calls again and again, the police eventually decided to look into it, if only to finally get rid of the problem.”

This is when Stiles cuts in.

“What problem?” he forces through his lips, jaw tense because he still doesn’t know what’s going on. He can’t recall making any prank calls, if that’s what his dad means, and doesn’t really see any different way he could be involved in that matter, even though something in the back of his head keeps telling him this is something _terrifyingly_ big, something that doesn’t only narrow down to a stupid joke some people might have made.

“It all escalated pretty quickly, though,” dad continues as if Stiles never interrupted him.  “The issue got serious enough that the police department in Sacramento informed all of nearby police stations, asking for help, although it’s still just to be on the safe side. Stiles, the thing is –“

And suddenly, Stiles knows. He knows why the tone of dad’s voice is bothering him all of a sudden, why he’s so anxious, why he can barely move. It’s the voice he’s heard before – back when he was four and seven and then ten; it’s the voice his dad uses whenever he’s about to say something big and unbelievable and _shattering_.

It’s the voice in which he said all these things – _“Your mom is very ill, Stiles,”_ and _“Grandma died yesterday,”_ and _“I don’t know why you don’t have a soulscar,”_ and now Stiles is about to hear yet another one of them, he knows, and all at once it, makes him feel so helpless and so _small_.

“I don’t know how you are connected to all of this,” his dad continues. Stiles involuntarily curls into himself. “I don’t know if you are connected to it _at all_. But Stiles –“

He breathes in, just as Stiles freezes, waiting for the words to come.

“Son,” his dad says finally, “people have started to lose their soulscars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://angstandcats.tumblr.com)


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